


wrap me in your arms (take me home)

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: It's too late, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reunion, i didn't explain anyyyything, i'm really not qualified to be writing this but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 08:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14911850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Later, Bucky will press him for details. Later, he’ll want dates and facts and a list of everything he’s missed. But, for now, being here (together) is enough."





	wrap me in your arms (take me home)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Take Me Home" by Us The Duo.

            When it’s over, when the dust has settled, when the world has regained whatever semblance of normalcy it can hold onto, Bucky stumbles into Steve’s arms and breathes.

            Steve’s hands clasp the back of his shirt like if he lets go Bucky might just fall through the very ground beneath their feet.

            “Been a long time?” Bucky asks.

            Steve must hear the unease in his voice, because he says. “Not too long.” But he sighs, and it sounds like _such a long while._

            (Later, Bucky will press him for details. Later, he’ll want dates and facts and a list of everything he’s missed. But, for now, being here (together) is enough).

            “And you’re still here, waiting around for me? I would’ve thought that counted as the end of the line for sure.”

            Steve’s voice is achingly soft when he says, “Maybe there isn’t one.” 

            Something about the words or the way he says them or the gentle movement of his hand across Bucky’s shoulder blades is too much. He leans on Steve’s shoulder. The universe wasn’t kind enough to return him from the realm of non-existence well-rested and recovered from battle, and there’s a deep exhaustion spreading through his chest, the sort of bone-deep tired that started to take root years ago. Decades.

            Steve pulls back, leaving one arm wrapped around his shoulders, and starts walking slowly away from the scene of the long since ended battle.

            (Bucky thinks of walking side-by-side down the streets and alleys of Brooklyn, pressing close together for warmth).

            The feeling of Steve’s side pressed into his is comforting, familiar. Bucky’s learned, over the years, that there are two sorts of familiar. One is warm, safe, enveloping comfort. The other is cold and metallic like the smell of blood, the kind that sets off an instinctual feeling of dread in his whole body. Steve’s always been the first sort of familiar for him. Everything about Steve is like coming home after being away for a long, long time. Sometimes Bucky feels that he’s living his life is a state of perpetual homesickness, and Steve is the only one who can lessen the ache.

            Bucky sighs, hoping the walk will help him cast off the heavy feeling settling over his limbs. “I didn’t know what was happening,” he whispers. “But I thought I might never see you again.”

            Steve shakes his head, tightens his grip on Bucky’s arm. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

            Bucky rubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

            “You okay?”

            Bucky just laughs softly. The answer to that question is long and convoluted and near impossible to unearth, buried in snow and ice and ash. “Remember when I used to be the one to take care of you?” His voice is rough. Bittersweet.

            Steve smiles affectionately, claps him on the shoulder. “You still are.”

            “It’s not like you need it. Well. Maybe you need to be talked out of doing stupid shit sometimes. Don’t think I’m much good at that, though.”

            “Well,” Steve says and shrugs, like _What can I say?_ Like nothing in the world is pressing or urgent, and time is something languid and slow. “I’m stubborn.” Sunlight falls on his hair, bright and gold like honey.

            “You sure I didn’t miss too much?” Bucky asks as they walk, watching the long grass ripple around their feet. He glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye.

            “Nothing important happens when you’re not around, Buck.” His voice is so earnest, so sincere that it almost hurts.

            “What now, then?” Bucky asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve shrug and turns to look at him.

            Steve is grinning, full-on America’s Sweetheart smile, and staring at him with absolutely no intention of giving him a real answer.

            Bucky supposes it doesn’t matter, for now. They should at least have until the sun sets to catch their breath. He has this almost forgotten feeling of knowing with absolute certainty that he’ll have a place to go.

            Steve is still smiling like a kid in a candy shop. It’s sort of contagious.

            Bucky smiles back, tentative, soft, happiness stirring in his chest.

            It’s that fragile kind of joy that springs up like flowers through cracks in concrete. The two of them were always particularly good at finding that.

            Steve abruptly stops walking, turning to look across the expanse of long, swaying grass.

            Bucky bumps into his shoulder. He stands beside him, sneaking glances at his face, turned to the horizon. In a way, Steve’s changed just as much as Bucky has. The years that have passed are no small stretch of time. Steve’s been a scrappy kid and a soldier and a hero, and what is he now?

            (Everything, probably. The human embodiment of good things, of joy and summer and home).

            The difference between them is that through it all, Steve has still been _Steve._ Bucky’s not sure he can say the same about himself, although Steve would argue that there was always a bit of him there, hiding in the shadows.

            “Bucky?” Steve says, and at the sound of his voice, Bucky feels a sudden jolt back to reality.

            Blades of grass twitch against his legs; he can see the sun setting in the distance with astounding clarity. Steve has a way of bringing him back to himself, even when Bucky thinks the version of himself that Steve knew might have died somewhere in the snow and the blood and the continuous pattern of kill, forget, repeat.

            The world is still spinning. There are others to greet. There’s catching up to do. Bucky’s sure it won’t be long before they’re pulled into another battle. It’s inevitable. But, for now: Bucky slides his fingers into Steve’s calloused hand and holds tight. The sun falls below the horizon, and he takes a breath of night air.

 

             


End file.
